


All I Ask

by christiansleathercoat



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Era, M/M, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24551347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christiansleathercoat/pseuds/christiansleathercoat
Summary: "On another day, in another world, Grantaire would have done it. Wiped it all away, torn down the barricade. Thrown himself at this flame of revolution, clung to it and lifted it, still burning. Found a way for it to live forever.But here, now, it was too late."Enjolras and Grantaire talk in the Musain the night before the barricade falls. It changes everything and nothing.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	All I Ask

Dawn crept into the room, a faint paint-spatter of pale light. Here was the new day. Yet the world remained unchanged. Splinters of hope littered the street, the room: rubble and blood.  
One remained.  
One statue, stained with red. He stood backed against the window, and the growing sun gilded his head. A broken crown of gold curls. He faced down the muskets with a lofty expression, and if tears for his friends danced down his cheeks, they painted rivers of silver as they came.  
He filled the room with light. Even as they raised their guns, the soldiers stood as if blinded in awe.  
But there was another. Hoarse words fell from his mouth as he staggered from the back, where he had sat hidden in darkness. He never took his gaze off the beacon that summoned him. The guns commanded no more of his attention than flies.  
Some paths are already carved before a walker’s feet. Some come into this world to be the other half of another. For this man, there was no other step to take.

They had met at a rally. Though ‘met’ was too strong a word. There was no conversation, no locking of eyes across a crowd. Only Grantaire, who ambled into the back of a gathering and heard angry, impassioned words projected across the space with more power than one human had the right to possess.  
He turned his head, and that was it.  
He thought he was hallucinating. There, stood on a wall to be visible, was Apollo himself. A face of sculpted marble, a head of burnished gold curls. He radiated light. Light Grantaire – submerged in darkness – could not begin to understand.  
Student rebellion was no interest of Grantaire’s. He steered clear of such situations on principle. Yet he stayed. The words themselves washed over his head. He could not have recited any afterwards or recalled the topic. Instead, he was lost in the leader’s blazing expression, the utter conviction in his tone.  
If you had told him then the end to which he would follow that man, it would not have surprised him.  
Grantaire was frozen to the spot. He had stumbled unknowingly into the other half of himself. It was as if he looked into a mirror and saw reflected everything he lacked.  
His fate was set. From that day, he was found with Les Amis. Compelled, unable to let the light fade beyond his sight, he stayed. At first, he attended meetings but kept his distance. He watched from a chair in the corner. Saw everything he might have been, everything those he once loved had wished he were.  
“Who are you?”  
The words fell on him. Their wielder looked down. Lofty, imperious.  
“A simple question we throw about so often, don’t you think? Yet do any of us know the answer? Isn’t it our fate to wander through our lives in the dark, never knowing our true identity? However, you asked, and I do know the answer. I am no one.”  
“Citizen” – Grantaire should have laughed at that but was unable – “you have sat in this corner for a week now and never announced yourself. I ask you now to give us your name, at the least. We are comrades here, do you understand? If you wish to join our ranks, we expect you to treat us as such.”  
“I am Grantaire. Or simply R if you like.”  
“Grantaire, are you willing to devote yourself to the cause? To give all you can to throw down the government and see a new world reborn from the ashes?”  
“I have a vague interest in considering it.”  
The leader’s eyes were blue steel. “A barricade is no place for games. Your loyalty, or nothing.”  
“My loyalty is yours, Apollo.”  
That marble face did not waver. It was cold, carven stone.  
“Now, I ask your name. As comrades such information is to be exchanged.” Grantaire was mocking. The arrow found its mark and drew a flash of fire.  
“Enjolras,” was the growled response.  
The leader turned to the rest of the group. Grantaire leaned back and allowed himself a smile. There was little he could give the cause. Little of worth he could throw at their feet. Yet he knew he would enjoy drawing out that anger. 

Two years passed.  
Grantaire never believed in the revolution, but he believed in Enjolras and cared for his friends. They opened their arms to him without question, and it astounded him.  
Bousset and Bahorel drank with him, Courfeyrac teased him, Combeferre was a willing debate partner. Feuilly was an unfaltering companion. Joly laughed with him. Jehan shared poetry – brighter than suited Grantaire’s tastes, but still beautiful – and was a listening ear. Marius…Marius was a riddle, but always up for conversation.  
He had never known such friendship, such acceptance.  
Only Enjolras remained distant. Grantaire’s obvious distaste for rebellion and subtle jibes kept him aloof and angry. Sometimes Grantaire lamented it, sometimes he welcomed it. To let him any closer was dangerous.  
Better to watch from afar. He would never be illuminated by the light, but at least he could see its glow.  
Enjolras was untouchable.  
Yet, on rare occasions, he showed kindness. These were the hardest. Those nights, Grantaire drank to forget and found he could not.  
The day Grantaire’s sister was taken ill, Enjolras accompanied him in a carriage to the hospital; a carriage he paid for. He did not speak of the revolution or confront. He was supportive company.  
Grantaire did not allow himself to dwell on these occurrences. Enjolras disliked him but made an exception when his good nature compelled. Grantaire tried to ignore the happiness his compassion brought. It would only harm him. 

Time.  
It was a funny thing. It rushed past and propelled them towards fate, towards doom.  
Grantaire heard the death-rattle of cannons and gunfire in his dreams, though he could not identify the sounds.  
When he reached the rare state of creation in which his subconscious seemed to lead the process, his paintings were strange and full of meaning he was unable to grasp. More swirls and flashes of colour than concrete images.  
Red. Black. A bloody sunrise.  
He watched Enjolras plan the revolt. And Grantaire wondered if he felt it too. 

“But you don’t believe in anything.”  
Grantaire let the words settle. Calm, serious, he gave his response. “I believe in you.”  
Enjolras brushed it off as he always did. He was blinded by the cause. The righteous light that burned in his eyes left him blinkered.  
No matter. Devotion cannot walk invisible forever. In the darkest hour, he would see.  
Yet Enjolras’s awareness held no sway over Grantaire’s path. He found no other purpose in life than to live or die by the leader’s side, in the end.

The night arrived.  
A barricade was raised like a child’s toy. Many hands came together to stack furniture, none with any more idea of what they were doing than the others.  
The wave had crested; now they anticipated its break.  
It had brought out the worst in them. Words were exchanged. Raw from Grantaire, sharp and cutting from Enjolras.  
Grantaire retreated to the interior of the Café Musain.  
On near silent feet, Enjolras followed him.  
“I think we’ve said enough to each other,” said Grantaire. Conversation was a gift to him, but tonight he did not want it. Foreboding hung in the air. A night for anguish, blood and waiting for a dawn they might not see. Not for this.  
“Grantaire,” said Enjolras. “I am going to die. We are going to die. I will not have you stay to prove a point.”  
Grantaire laughed darkly. “You think that is what I am doing?”  
“Do you know what it’s like? To feel you have lived for one thing alone, to see it unfold before you, and to know your life will be over?”  
“I know more than you might think.” Grantaire held his gaze steady.  
“I am afraid. I say that only because I know the words will mean nothing to you. The others need my resolve. You do not. This is our end, our last stand. I cannot afford to have anyone here who will not fight until their last breath, will not throw in everything they have without stopping to ask why.”  
“You rebuke me so I will leave?”  
“I rebuke you because there is no place here for this. The barricade is not for thoughtless suicide, for the last word in an argument.”  
“What about for love?”  
The word fell heavy into the space between them.  
A dangerous night indeed.  
Enjolras was quiet for too long. “This is a revolution,” he murmured.  
“What is revolution for if not love? Love for a country, for the people, for friends…I meant every word I said to you Enjolras. I believe in you. And if I must fight and die for that, I will do it gladly. Are you satisfied?”  
Enjolras walked to the window. Grantaire wondered – not for the first time – what it would be like to see the world through those eyes.  
“I am not asking that of you.”  
“You haven’t. I would do anything you asked of me, you know that. But this, at least, is my choice.”  
Enjolras turned back. The sight of him vulnerable was new. His glory was diminished. He was human, yet no less wonderful for it.  
“You don’t need to say anything,” Grantaire told him. “I know you hate me.”  
“I don’t hate you.” Enjolras huffed a laugh. “I wish I did. You can be a right nuisance when you want to, but I have never hated you for it. Look, I…my attention was on this” – he gestured to the door – “and I reacted the way I did because of the attitude you brought to this revolt. You might have seen it as hate, but I did not. It was simply my job as leader to maintain a level of morale, of belief.”  
“So if the barricade did not exist?”  
“Then I think things would have been different.”  
The words brought joy Grantaire could not express, but he did not want them the way he would have yesterday. With mere hours left, what good did they do?  
“Grantaire, I am not asking you to forgive me for what I said to you. All I ask is…” Enjolras sighed. “There is no tomorrow. Not for me, and perhaps not any of us. And if this is my last night with you, I would not leave things the way they were.”  
As if it were the easiest movement, Enjolras lifted a hand and touched Grantaire’s face. Brushed his cheek, his fingers thunderbolts. The world seemed to tremble even as Grantaire did. He could have put his arms around the leader. He could have held him.  
But the barricade loomed in his mind’s eye.  
On another day, in another world, Grantaire would have done it. Wiped it all away, torn down the barricade. Thrown himself at this flame of revolution, clung to it and lifted it, still burning. Found a way for it to live forever.  
But here, now, it was too late.  
He stepped back. “Enjolras, they need you. Lead your revolution.”  
“I’m not trying to be cruel…”  
“No,” said Grantaire. “But our dice are cast. There is a path you must follow. I will go with you, but not like this.”  
A shout from outside: Combeferre.  
“Enjolras! I see movement!”  
“Do what you have to.”  
Enjolras paused, once, halfway across the room. He almost looked back.  
Then he was gone.  
Grantaire retreated upstairs. To wait, to die, to drink, to sleep…who knew?  
Theirs was a story of almost. Of mis-interpreted words, of lost moments. Finally, they realised it, but too late. With time running out, what else could they have done? 

Blood, smoke, muskets…none of it mattered. The leader in red filled the room. The rest was dark. Insignificant.  
The man had spent his life stumbling through the darkness. Now his path was clear-cut as glass. He did not hesitate as he took his place. As he asked for this honour from the angel beside him. Their hands met and clasped tight, and finally the light he had admired for so long fell on his face.  
Yes, he thought, this is the worth in life.  
He could die knowing that. It would be enough.  
A smile.  
A smile for him.  
He could never have asked for more. And in those final moments, he swore the pair of them blazed like the sun. One flame, united as darkness rushed in.  
He was not afraid.  
Love made him brave.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I wrote a while back and I've been saving it for Barricade Day, so here you go! Happy Barricade Day!  
> The title and a little bit of the dialogue comes from Adele's "All I Ask". I was also listening to "A Dangerous Night" by Thirty Seconds to Mars a lot while writing this, so those were my inspiration songs as it were.


End file.
